


the sword and the faith

by biggayrhys



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (which is to say no morals), Alien Morality, Canonical Character Death, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dialogue Light, Fae & Fairies, Fae Morals, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mild Gore, POV Leonard Snart, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Pretentious, Prose Poem, Symbolism, Undeath, Welsh Folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23748601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggayrhys/pseuds/biggayrhys
Summary: From the emptiness of space, Len comes wreathed in feathers and snow.
Relationships: Mick Rory/Leonard Snart
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33





	the sword and the faith

**Author's Note:**

> this is definitely pretentious but i dont care. len is a kind of welsh spirit similar to a banshee called a cyhyraeth that wails as a portent of death. don't ask me to justify this because its self indulgent shit .
> 
> thank you to thebridgebetweenus for the beta!!

Your name is Leonard Snart, and with tooth and claw and fierce-bitter tongue, you draw yourself from death. You refuse to become _nothing_ , to be so insignificant as to _not exist at all_ , to be as your father said and be worthless and meaningless and _forgotten._ With all the ice in your heart and fire in your soul, you draw yourself back together. What you forgot to account for is that when someone dies like you, unfulfilled and without satisfaction, they either do not come back or they come back _wrong_.

You wake up hungry. Your belly aches, burning with rage and desire and _love_ , and something is missing. 

Some _one_ is missing. _Mick_ , you remember, _Mick_ , you think, _Mick_ , you plead. _Mick, Mick, Mick_ , you wail with a voice that forms no words into the open void of space. Mick, he who holds your heart and your love, all that you can give freely to another and more besides. You cannot languish in your grave, the empty void of space, in-between time. You gnash your teeth and _scream_ into the void, but there is no one to listen, no one to save you. 

And then there is. From the vast emptiness comes hands, cold enough to hurt, on your cheek and shoulder. The thing in front of you cannot be called a man, but that is roughly the form he takes; a man like ice, like snow, and with grinning lips and ink-black fingers speckled as if with snow, he relays a message. His voice rattles you, chokes you, rips through you like the fiercest winter wind, and you kiss his knuckles and offer your fealty for a year and a day. 

It’s fitting. You gave your mortal life for Mick, and now you swear away part of your soul for the opportunity to return to him. You don’t regret it, can’t bring yourself to. You said to Mick once that you’d crawl from your grave to him if you ever died. Mick had laughed. You hadn’t meant it as a joke.

The Holly King asks little of you. His court is not a place of honor, but you are hungry, and so there you remain. A year and a day pass so slowly, so very slowly, like a glacier receding, and you are so hungry. You belong to he who comes from battle and conflict, and so you stalk alongside armies, an omen of ill fortune, and you follow your lord. You take the form of a bird with feathers so black you shine like an oil slick and you follow your lord on wing. You take the form of a cat, sleek and silent and just as dark, and follow your lord like a shadow. You do not take the form of a man. 

You can’t quite, not anymore. You can bring yourself to a form almost like a man’s, with skin and two legs and arms and hands and fingers, a face with front-facing eyes and a nose and a mouth with teeth, but it’s not right. Your eyes are too blue, your teeth too sharp, your tongue too long, your nails too pointed. Your skin itches and stings until you allow feathers to emerge along your shoulders, allow your fingers to lengthen into claws and your incisors to become fangs. 

From this, you realize something. You have nothing to offer Mick. You do not have your body, human and soft despite all your scars and jagged edges; you have no words for him that can heal the hurt you dealt him in life, no words at all due to your stolen voice. You can scream and wail, certainly, you can cry your rage until your dead man’s throat burns, but the words will not come. That is the price you paid for your second chance at living, you think, but there is still the matter of repaying Mick for the grief you have caused him unintentionally.

You can do nothing but watch, so you watch with all the urgency and adoration of a starving man finally laying eyes on a feast. You watch Mick, aching and wounded but blessedly, beautifully _alive_ , and as you watch, you realize something. 

They are cruel to him. 

Idiot, they call him. _Meat_ , worthless, purposeless. You are so angry that you rage against the bonds of your oath, screaming and howling with the voice of a corvid. None of them hear you, but you watch them shiver as the temperature drops. They are insulated by their ship of iron and the false-magic of the time stream, but you know that soon enough, you will have your way. 

You smile. It is not a kind smile; it is the toothy grin of a predator within striking distance of his prey. You know how to repay your debt to Mick now. 

What is more valuable to the lover of one who transcended death than the head of the king of the dead? Annwn is cold, so cold, and you have become a being of snow. Your heart freezes in the icy realm of Father Winter, but you cannot give up. Your year and a day has almost elapsed, and you have a plan. 

Gwyn ap Nudd is indeed the king of the dead, but you know his weakness. He is a warrior, not a thief; he never noticed the cat following in his shadow, never thought to demand loyalty of the spirit and not the letter. You are a planner, a plotter, a crooked man who sees with golden eyes the truth of the matter, and you know this: Mick Rory deserves a kingdom. He will receive one by your hand. 

The final day of your service comes. The Winter Solstice, it is, a day of bright magic and cold so terrible even you shudder and tremble. The Holly King, frigid and bleak as he is, is alight with barely-contained magic, but the Oak King Gwythyr is burning, eyes aflame and sword lit with the fires of heaven and summer. The two duel, as they do every solstice, and Gwythyr strikes Gwyn down. You take your chance.

With cat’s feet, you spring forward, slipping beneath the blade, and before either king can stop you, you rip into Gwyn’s chest with your taloned fingers and rip out his heart. 

Long live the king indeed, you think as you squeeze, crushing the organ. Just like that, it’s over. You are free and unbound save for your freely-given ties to Mick, and your gift is almost ready. 

Gwyn was a warrior, first and foremost, and although you did not defeat him honorably, it was you who slew him. By right and law, Annwn is yours, so you do not slink away from Gwyn’s corpse and Gwythyr’s surprise. You take the form of a raven and fly away proudly, leaving a feather behind as you slip into the time stream. You are no longer hindered by it at all. 

By all rights, you should have everything, but all you _want_ is Mick. You slip aboard the ship in a white halo of light. The iron burns, but what burns more is the absence of Mick. Tam Lin was rescued by his love from the fae queen, but the king is dead and you are no princeling to be rescued. You sweep onto the bridge in your most manlike shape and most everyone springs to their feet. 

“ _Snart?_ ” Sara asks incredulously. The members of the crew who joined after you died look bewildered. 

You give a long look to Mick, who looks like he’s on the verge of tears. You gesture at your throat; Mick makes his way to your side where he belongs and you finally relax. 

“Snart? Can you not speak?” Sara looks concerned now. You shake your head and grasp Mick’s hand. The sensation, warm and solid and so, so real after dreaming of it for a year and a day is so profoundly wonderful that you can’t wait to give Mick everything he could possibly want. You recognize that being among notoriously obsessive creatures for a year hasn’t exactly done wonders for your morality, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you’re _here_ with Mick. 

Mick’s touch against your skin allows you to touch his heart of hearts and impart the knowledge he needs. He trusts you so implicitly, so easily and naturally that it hurts. You aren’t worthy of that comfortable intimacy, but you’d kill to protect it. Your banshee’s voice means you can’t berate the crew like you want to, but Mick can feel your pride, your love, and that is what matters. He embraces you in front of the whole crew and you ask him the wordless question that is _come with me, I have stolen a kingdom for you, you will never want for anything, you deserve the best_ that radiates from you. Mick kisses you in an equally wordless _yes_. 

Everything is exactly as it should be, with Mick at your side and uncaring of you being not-quite-human. Mick never _was_ overly concerned with appearances.

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment if you enjoyed <3


End file.
